


Save Yourself

by semele



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/semele/pseuds/semele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elena gets reaped and goes to The Hunger Games with Alaric and Johanna as her mentors.</p><p>Spoilers: early s3 for TVD; Catching Fire for THG.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Elena gets reaped (or volunteers?) and goes to The Hunger Games (you pick who her mentor is – Damon? Alaric? someone else entirely?), by scorpiod1.
> 
> My beta-readers (who are better than your favs) are [Kelsey](http://kwritten.livejournal.com/) and [Sarah](http://gohandinhand.tumblr.com/). I owe them a lot of first-borns.

Alaric has no idea why he bothers to remain sober.

It probably has something to do with watching Haymitch Abernathy vomit into a plant pot on Alaric's very first day mentoring, but today, this doesn't feel like a sufficient motivation. He would probably need five vomiting Haymitches with three Chaffs on top to keep him away from booze on Reaping Day if he had any – which he doesn't. Alcohol is hard to come by in District Seven, and Alaric made sure to get rid of his stash weeks ago. Technically, he has enough money to resupply at any moment, but he's fairly certain that Blight told everyone not to sell to him just in case.

The Victors' Village is eerily quiet, and the silence makes Alaric's skin crawl. Blight has two kids, and his younger turned twelve just last week, so the lack of usual bustle next door is as understandable as it is unsettling. Alaric almost hopes that their escort will arrive early, and give Johanna a chance to fill the Village with loud contempt.

But no distractions are coming to save him, so Alaric crawls out of bed with a deep sigh, and attempts to shave. The preps won't lay their hands on him until after the Reaping, so if he doesn't want Blight to rip him a new one, he needs to get his shit together.

District Seven is a funny one; poor and shabby enough to never stand a real chance in the Games, but with victors happening often enough to give people some false hope. Liz Sommers winning back in the day was a small damn miracle, but then she brought Blight and Alaric home almost back to back, just two years between them, and all hell broke loose: an army of dead tributes (five of them volunteers), and parents looking at Alaric with a mixture of courage and terror as he took their children away year after year.

Blight brought Johanna home when Alaric was busy being drunk like a skunk, and she never forgave either of them.

Alaric dresses smartly, a picture of how the Capitol imagines somber District modesty, but with a splash of color he hopes can revert part of the crowd's attention from Blight's bloodless face and Johanna's furious eyes. None of them really likes the others, but they make a decent team regardless – not that it matters much. Alaric is long past the megalomaniac stage in which he believed that his actions have impact on what happens during the Games, regardless of what the Career mentors like to tell themselves every year.

They do, however, matter to Blight, so Alaric makes sure to be at the train station on time. Capitol insists it's good manners to welcome their escort as he arrives every year, so the three of them have no choice but show up. Formal wear makes Johanna look ridiculously young, and Alaric makes a mental note to never ever mention it to her.

The train is fashionably late, the way it often is. By the time it rolls onto the platform, Blight is white like a sheet, his right hand desperately clutching his wrist watch. It’s almost eleven o’clock, and if he had any hopes of seeing his kids before the Reaping, he’d better give them up. If they know anything about their escort, it’s that this bastard loves to play with his food.

Finally Damon Salvatore jumps onto the platform with predatory grace, and Alaric is immediately reminded of a large cat stretching lazily before it strikes and kills. His flamboyant clothes probably cost more than the Justice Building, but Ric doesn’t find them funny, not anymore. His black shirt is open all the way to his waist, showing more chest than anyone in Seven has ever shown while sober, and he’s wearing dramatic eyeliner that contrasts freakishly with his pale skin. 

“Happy Hunger Games,” he throws with a charming smile. Damon Salvatore is probably the only person in Panem who manages to make the Capitol accent sound scary instead of ridiculous – or maybe it’s just Alaric who can’t shake the sense of dread at the words that suddenly make this day real.

“And may the odds be ever in your favour,” recites Johanna loudly, her last vowel curled up like a whiplash. She’s looking directly at Damon, and the amount of hatred in her voice makes Alaric wonder if she realized that Blight just lost a chance to check up on his kids before the Reaping. 

Maybe not. Maybe this is just regular Johanna. Hard to tell with her.

Damon takes her hostility in a stride. He looks vaguely amused and entirely pleased with himself. Alaric heard in the Capitol that he’s considered lucky; apparently Reaping a victor in your first year as an escort is a good luck charm, a great omen for your future career in the Games. He’s glad Johanna didn’t know about this superstition when she was a tribute, or she might’ve gotten herself killed just to screw things up for Damon.

Two sealed boxes are carried out of the train, and Blight makes a sound that immediately distracts Alaric from Damon and Johanna. Reaping balls, straight from the Capitol, each name entered the required number of times, all fair and square – or so they’re told. Actually, Alaric thinks that they’re assured of this a bit too often, but he’ll be damned if he breathes a word of his suspicions for another six years at the least. He doesn’t need Blight stressed enough to vomit on Salvatore’s shoes, tempting as the idea may sound.

Of course Blight isn’t stupid, and he knows that victors’ kids get Reaped more often than they theoretically should. You don’t have to have the history of the Games as your talent to notice some things in the Victors’ Lounge, things not even Johanna talks about, ever. Old Mags never looks Beetee directly in the eye; the year Beetee won, the girl from Four could make terrific fishhooks, and it meant absolutely nothing when she stepped on a carefully disguised mine. Alaric always thought she’d been a volunteer, but the footage the Capitol so kindly provided for him to work on his talent registered nothing but deafening silence as she mounted the stairs to a huge stage, her face fixed with an expression of slight disbelief.

Even if the Reaping balls are never tampered with, who would dare to call Salvatore to show that the name he read out really is the name written on the slip of paper in his hand?

Johanna’s sharp voice snaps Alaric out of his overflowing mess of thoughts. It only takes him a second to reassess the situation: Salvatore has moved to follow the boxes, and Johanna followed suit, not so accidentally putting herself between him and Blight. Meanwhile, all Alaric has achieved was drawing attention to Blight’s stalling by staying behind with him. Brilliant.

“We have about half an hour before the ceremony starts,” says Johanna loudly. “The mayor will be in the square to greet you.”

The mayor has a seventeen-year-old son, remembers Alaric grimly, and as much as he’s a hateful asshole rubbing shoulders with the Capitol whenever he can, there is no way in hell he’ll leave his house today until he absolutely has to. Having grown up in a tiny lumberjack settlement deep in the woods, Alaric didn’t even meet Richard Lockwood until he came home as a victor, and he can’t say that he ever got to know him very well, but this, he’s sure of.

“Yes, yes,” replies Salvatore impatiently. “And in the meantime, you three are supposed to entertain me. Wonderful.”

Alaric steps in before Johanna can say whatever it is that’s on her mind right now. 

“What’s Nero’s strategy for the opening ceremony?” he asks stupidly, as if Nero ever had a costume strategy going beyond “needs more branches”.

Salvatore raises his eyebrows.

“He’s bringing tree bark back in style. Or was this his strategy two years ago? No matter,” he replies emphatically. “He won’t make final decisions until he sees the tributes. I suggested he stick an axe in his moronic skull as an accessory, but for some reason he thought it an overkill. Can’t imagine why.”

His accent gets slightly less Capitol, showing just how annoyed he is at the memory of their failure of a stylist. Alaric simply nods.

They drag their feet to the square, and Alaric does all he can to keep focusing on Blight, on talking to Salvatore to shield Blight, on listening to Johanna – because the moment he lets himself think about what’s really happening around him, he might start screaming. In some ways, Reapings were easier when he was a boy – at least then, he could tell himself they didn't touch him; close the door of his house in the evening, and pretend nothing happened.

Of course he could only do it until he couldn't, but that's neither here, nor there.

The Capitol people from the train are securing Reaping balls on stage, and Alaric’s eyes automatically drift to kids who are already starting to fill the square. They’re forming their usual tiny groups at the entrance, but each group gets broken up quickly as Peacekeepers briskly divide them up according to age. Seven might be big, but people are spread thin around the forests, so unless your parents work in one of the paper mills in the center, all school you’ll ever see is a single room with a teacher trying to sing songs with six-year-olds while grading eighteen-year-olds’ calculus. Alaric usually mentors kids he’s never met before the Reaping, and he’d never had a pair of tributes who knew each other. Perhaps it’s easier this way.

Salvatore is in his element now, bossing people around and casually flirting with everyone as if he didn’t come here to read out a death sentence. Theoretically, Alaric knows that the Reaping is a celebration in the Capitol, but every year the very idea hits him like a hammer once he sees Salvatore’s festive clothes and his genuine excitement.

“Who’s mentoring this year?” he asks routinely, his eyes fixed on the stage where his people are adjusting the microphones.

“Us,” responds Johanna before Alaric can make a sound, and then she makes a mistake of pointing at herself, then at him. This brings Salvatore’s attention back to them; he turns to follow the movement of her hand, and ends up looking straight at Blight, who’s been taking care not to fall too far behind.

“And you’re just enjoying a family trip?”

His voice isn’t exactly menacing, and the remark is innocent enough, given Alaric and Blight’s reputation in the Capitol, but Blight still turns green, his jaw clenched so tight he couldn’t speak even if he wanted. 

Then Salvatore loses interest as if nothing happened, and Alaric finds himself climbing the stage behind him like a coward, because he can’t bear looking at Blight’s face anymore.

The Reaping Day is the only time he ever considers the possibility of Blight’s kids getting Reaped. For most of the year, knowing how slim their chances are is enough to calm him down. Today, however, none of them is placated by anything so frail as numbers, and as Alaric takes his seat on the stage, he scans the crowd for any kids he might know. Anne, the only kid his age he went to school with, has a thirteen-year-old son, and her brother, Tom, has two daughters who can climb trees like squirrels. Close to the entrance, Liz Sommers’ younger daughter Jenna is hugging two kids way too old to be hers, and Alaric looks at them for a moment, because a group from the settlement closest to the Victors’ Village is walking in just now, and while he feels like wallowing and maybe seeking out parents of his potential tributes, looking at kids he actually knows is a bit too much.

“Feeling sorry for yourself?” asks Johanna casually as she falls to a seat to his left. Alaric shoots her a dirty look.

“Seeing anyone you know?” he replies, knowing full well that he’s being vile.

For a second, he thinks she’ll slap him, but Johanna just clenches her fist so hard her nails must be digging into her skin. She must’ve noticed a camera fixed just on them, ready to catch a juicy scene even though the official ceremony hasn’t started yet. They’d be all over tomorrow’s breakfast television.

Salvatore’s traditional speech is a blur that still manages to send chills down Alaric’s spine. The camera’s glass eye is gleaming in midday sunlight, and it makes him think of a bug in a jar. He feels familiar terror creep up on him the way it does every year, and the world shrinks until this day is all about him, his pain and his tragedies, and a very melodramatic memory of blood on his hands.

He barely registers Salvatore calling out Elena Gilbert, then Tyler Lockwood. The crowd’s stunned disbelief as this unlikely pair mounts the stage goes completely over his head, and the first thing to shake him out of his stupor is deafening silence as Richard Lockwood chokes on Treaty of Treason.

Alaric has no idea how long he sits there without a word, his eyes dancing from the mayor’s shaking throat to Salvatore’s lazy smile. It’s like watching a tragedy on TV, mute and motionless, and blissfully free of any responsibility until Blight gets up from his chair, takes the cards from Lockwood’s hands, and finishes the Treaty as if he’s been doing nothing else for his entire life.

The burning feeling Alaric is experiencing right now probably has something to do with shame, and it has nowhere to go but up.

Once the Treaty is over, the Peacekeepers pull the three of the off the stage and usher them towards the train a bit more brutally than usual, not even allowing Blight to wave his wife and kids goodbye. It’s a short walk, and they have time until the tributes finish saying their goodbyes in the Justice Building, but Salvatore is obviously pissed that someone interrupted his precious ceremony, and it’s not like him to let petty revenge go.

Once they leave cameras behind and close the train door shut behind them, Johanna Mason turns on her heel and slaps Alaric so hard he staggers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jenna’s hair is still in the elaborate Reaping updo when she enters the small room in Justice Building, and that’s what finally makes Elena realize that this is really happening.

Jenna’s hair is still in the elaborate Reaping updo when she enters the small room in Justice Building, and that’s what finally makes Elena realize that this is really happening.

Her aunt has her in a crushing hug in a matter of seconds, and Elena sinks into it gratefully, allowing herself to be comforted.

“Where is Jeremy?” she asks quietly.

“Outside. We didn’t go in together, because we thought it’d buy us more time with you. He’ll go in right after me. Listen to me,” says Jenna in one breath. “Listen, I’m gonna talk to your mentors and yell at them, okay? They’d better remember me. I’ll yell at them a lot, and I’ll make them take very good care of you.”

She’s rambling, and Elena doesn’t have the heart to tell her to stop, because she probably won’t see her again, and she desperately doesn’t want Jenna to remember her as this person who told her to stop talking during their last conversation. Instead, she starts talking over her. She only has five minutes, and there is so much she needs, _needs_ to say, I love you, I love you both, take care of Jeremy, stay with him, and that last work I did for the print shop…

But she never gets to tell her about those herbal teas brochures she’s been preparing, because there’s a knock on the door, and Jenna gets pulled out as quickly as she entered, blink and gone, and neither of them had a chance to actually say goodbye.

Now Elena knows she should’ve said some things this morning, but honestly, who ever thinks they’re gonna get Reaped?

Once Jeremy walks in, silence falls. 

His Reaping clothes are crumpled from pushing through the crowd in great haste, but now that he is here, he has no clue what to say. This is stunningly unlike him. Jeremy Gilbert always has a mouth full of words, of promises and encouragements, I will protect you, I will take care of you, but there is absolutely nothing he can do. This simple truth must be hitting him just now, and he stands frozen, so Elena pulls herself together; she closes the distance between them, and gives Jeremy a hug he returns automatically.

“Please, don’t die,” he begs in a low voice, and it’s like mom and dad all over again. It crosses Elena’s mind that he should’ve come to her together with Jenna; let her ramble over the two of them, and maybe over Elena’s creeping guilt that she’s leaving them.

“I’ll try, okay? I promise I’ll try,” she whispers frantically, ready to promise him anything – anything to pass the time, to make him turn and leave, because when he’s giving her this look, she believes, deep in her heart, that she’s going to die.

“We’re going to collect money for you,” he says in the final second, unable to accept his own helplessness. “We’ll send you food! Or a weapon!”

Then a Peacekeeper shuts the door, and Elena is left alone with her thoughts.

She walks to a chair and sits down slowly, letting her head rest on her hands. Damon Salvatore’s voice is still ringing in her head, Elena Gilbert, Elena Gilbert, Elena Gilbert, this must be a mistake. Elena Gilbert can’t just go and die.

She wills herself to calm her breath, but that’s as much as she can do. It’s so absurd to think that she will die in the matter of days, but every few breaths the idea kicks in for just a second, and it fills her with horror. 

(It doesn’t occur to her yet that, by wishing someone else had been Reaped instead, she’s hoping someone would die for her.)

There is one more person she’s waiting to see, and then they’ll lead her to her train. She already botched her two most important goodbyes, so maybe she can at least get this one right; say all the right things, and maybe be a bit of a hero.

Hero. Here’s a thought.

Matt looks sick when he enters the room, and Elena guesses he’s visited Tyler already. He’ll be the only person in Seven unsure who to root for, but he’s holding it together surprisingly well – or maybe he’s just putting on a brave face for both of their sakes? Either way, Elena is grateful. He’s her oldest friend, and she needs him, of  all people, to be calm.

He pulls her into a tight, comforting hug, and whispers “I’m so sorry” into her hair, no begging or platitudes. Matt is losing a friend either way, and Elena doesn’t want to know if he’s being brave, or simply stunned.

“I don’t want to die,” she lets out without thinking, and Matt simply tightens his hug. Unlike Jeremy, he isn’t searching for words, but simply refusing them.

It’s a good thing, Elena thinks, that he loves her, but not enough to be broken.

When it’s time to leave, she lets go easily, for once not feeling like someone’s being ripped away from her. 

Tyler is already in the car when Elena gets there, and he barely acknowledges her as she takes her seat. They were never friends, not exactly, but they do know each other through Matt, and that counts for something. They even went to school together, although their circles didn’t overlap much. It was easy to get lost in the crowd of factory kids. 

“How are you doing?” asks Elena just to say something.

“How do you think?” says Tyler without shifting in his seat. His eyes are fixed on something ahead of them, and it looks as if his elbows were glued to his knees, his back permanently bent.

“There has to be a way out of this,” she wants to reply stupidly. “If we just put our heads together, we can…” she almost suggests, but then she draws a blank when she tries to think of what they could do in this situation.

“Right,” she mutters instead, and they don’t say another word all the way to the train station.

There is no one there to see them off – no one but the cameras eager for a glimpse at the newest contestants and hungry for fresh blood. Bets will already have started at the Capitol, and District Seven tributes look so nice this year, strong and healthy, the way District kids rarely are, what a treat!

Elena hates them so much it chokes her.

The train feels claustrophobic, and it seems that there’s not way to escape the dining room Elena and Tyler are ushered into immediately at arrival. A big table is set for what looks like the richest lunch Elena has ever seen – not that she could tell based on the sullen moods of their mentors and escort. 

“Honestly? Fuck you,” announces Johanna as Elena and Tyler enter the room. Salvatore gives her a sour smile, his eyes opening widely like a bug’s as he gets up.

“Suit yourself,” he says with mock politeness. “You two? Good luck staying alive.”

With that, he leaves the compartment, and as Alaric and Blight turn their heads to see him go, Elena notices that the former is sporting quite an impressive shiner she’s positive hasn’t been there at the Reaping.

As she imagines who could’ve done this to him, she can feel a chill crawling down her spine.

Meanwhile, Johanna Mason observes Salvatore’s dramatic exit with less than mild curiosity, then turns her attention to them.

“Well, we might as well get straight to it,” she says in a business-like tone. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Elena shifts uncomfortably from leg to leg, unsure what’s expected of her, but Johanna doesn’t wait for their reaction.

“You, I know,” she announces, pointing at Tyler. “So how about you? You look familiar, but I can’t place you.”

“I’m Elena Gilbert,” she says, unnecessarily; the entire Panem knows her name by now. “My parents owned the print shop by the mill.”

“Owned?” asks Johanna, her head tilting slightly.

“She is Miranda Sommers’ girl,” explains Blight before Elena can say a word.

She notices a weird expression on Alaric’s face, but before she has time to process it, Johanna claims her attention again.

“We got two rich kids this year?” she exclaims, not trying to be polite. “Well, never thought I’d see that. You two never even had tesserae, did you? That’s gonna be interesting.”

“I’m glad you’re entertained,” barks Tyler. He’s practically oozing hostility, but Johanna doesn’t seem fazed.

“It’s not me you have to entertain, Mayor Boy,” she says with a shrug. “Oh, sit down already, and eat something. We won’t be in the Capitol until after midnight, so might as well stuff yourselves.”

Elena does as she’s told, if only to stop Alaric and Blight from craning their necks all the time. She circles the table and sits next to Johanna, leaving Tyler to take the place to Blight’s right. He does so grudgingly, and doesn’t stop giving Johanna dirty looks.

“So who is mentoring who?” he asks, ignoring his plate.

“For now, we’re all mentoring both of you,” replies Johanna as she stoically stabs a sausage. “That’s why Bug-Eye Princess there threw a tantrum. He… How did it go? The nice way of saying this?”

“Disagrees with our strategy,” prompts Alaric.

“Right. Ignore him. He’s a moron.”

“You think everyone is a moron,” points out Blight. A slight smile this evokes on Alaric’s face suddenly makes Elena uncomfortable.

“That’s because they are.”

The mentors seem chummy in a way Elena and Tyler never were, which makes them both seem like intruders. Just now it strikes Elena how different those three are – forest kids through and through, brave and outspoken, and so used to counting on themselves. She thinks they’re trying to cheer them up now, but getting mixed results, because their efforts make her feel both familiar and terrified. Grandmother Liz had been like them, cheeked her way into the Capitol and back again, but this isn’t Elena, and hasn’t been for quite a while.

They don’t eat lunch as much as let it stretch until it’s time for dinner, which is when Salvatore makes an appearance. He must have a room for himself somewhere on the train, because he changed out of his Reaping outfit into something more casual, a loose linen shirt that’s already creased around the elbows. 

“Did you call Nero?” asks Alaric the moment he spots him.

“Who’s Nero?” asks Tyler immediately, eyebrows raised in alert.

“Your stylist,” explains Salvatore as he takes his seat on Johanna’s right. “And actually he called me. Three times before I got to my quarters. He watched the Reaping and nearly wet himself when he saw what pretty tributes he got. Expect to be naked.”

Elena looks around, desperate for an assurance that Salvatore is joking, but one glance at Alaric’s face is enough to confirm her worst fears. 

“You aren’t serious,” says Tyler, staring at Salvatore from across the table.

Salvatore shrugs.

“I believe his exact words were: ‘Naked and wrapped in ivy.’”

“Listen, we’ll arrive in the middle of the night,” interrupts Blight in such a business-like manner you can almost miss how much he wants to change a topic. “You’ll be able to go to sleep right away, but tomorrow you’ll have prep first thing. It’ll be weird. Don’t question it.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Tyler, and for some reason Blight looks at him sympathetically rather than sternly.

“What happens next?” asks Elena. Her own voice sounds strange to her, croaked as if she hasn’t used it for a decade.

“Don’t worry about ‘next’ just now,” says Alaric after a few silent seconds. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

It would be nice if she could laugh bitterly in response to his platitudes, but this isn’t the kind of thing Elena Gilbert does, so she just nods politely.

Soon it gets difficult not to laugh as she listens to an endless string of insults and bickering that’s supposedly all about her. She feels stunned by how surreal this seems, a dinner from hell with a bunch of people she has nothing in common with. A White Rabbit from a story her mom used to tell when Elena was little pops to her mind, and she half-expects Salvatore to start announcing how late they are any minute now.

Instead, he calls them to a big couch in front of a flat television screen to watch the recap of the Reaping.

It’s a blur of unfamiliar names and faces that makes Elena want to squeeze Tyler’s hand for comfort. She watches the first three pairs without really noticing their faces, and all she registers are insignificant details: the girl from One wears the most radiant smile as she volunteers, and the boy from Three is so terrified he can barely climb the stairs leading to a metal stage. The face of the girl from Four is what finally grabs her full attention: she looks fourteen at most, but her eyes are clever and quick as she scans the audience from above, then gives Bonnie Bennett, their last year’s Victor, a rueful smile.

The TV crew mercifully didn’t show much of Mayor Lockwood’s reaction to his son being Reaped, so Seven doesn’t end up looking too bad. Elena knows she could’ve performed better, but she doesn’t care much. Ever since Johanna cried her way onto the stage at her Reaping, tributes from Seven have been getting a free pass on any displays of weakness. Everyone will likely take her stiff movements and dumbstruck face for a strategy.

Elena feels Tyler move uncomfortably next to her as soon as the boy from Eight shows up on screen. He can’t be more than twelve, short and scrawny, and so obviously aware of how dead he is. Every child in Panem knows that there has never been a Victor younger than fourteen.

The boy from Ten mounts the stage with a foolish swagger that makes Elena cringe, and his district partner clearly shares her opinion. The pair from Eleven clearly knows each other, and the accusatory expression they both wear makes such an impression that Elena doesn’t really notice anything about Twelve. On her left, Salvatore grows uncharacteristically quiet and pensive, and Elena turns her head to look at him, surprised at this vague display of human decency.

As it turns out, not quite.

“What do you say?” he asks Alaric, his matter-of-fact tone of voice like a slap on Elena’s face. “I’d suggest making the girl from One their first target.”

She takes care not to look at him for the rest of the journey.

It’s two in the morning by the time they arrive to the Capitol, but the train station is full of people as if this was the middle of a sunny day. Elena stares at the crowd with disbelief until a firm hand pulls her away from the window.

“Listen, we’re the last team to arrive today,” says Johanna quickly once she makes sure she has Elena’s full attention. “The rest of the tributes won’t start showing up until morning. Those people,” she inclines her head towards the platform, pronouncing the word ‘people’ with such an edge she might as well be saying ‘gawping idiots,’ “are bored and ready to go home. You have to dazzle them, or they’ll remember you disappointed them. Understand?”

Elena nods, and Johanna doesn’t wait for any more recognition; she swiftly turns and walks away, probably to deliver the very same message to Tyler. Alaric and Blight are whispering something in the corner of the compartment, and Elena quickly reverts her eyes, feeling like an intruder. There is something weird going on between those two, something hard to describe, but quite ugly. It makes Elena ask, not for the first time, what Blight’s wife thinks about all this.

She’s grateful for the distraction when Salvatore calls them to the exit.

The noise from the platform is deafening, but together with sharp, artificial lights it makes the whole experience quite unreal. It’s easy for Elena to straighten her back and put on a dazzling smile, to wave and cheer, and wink at Tyler when a group of teenage girls who will never be Reaped throw a handful of stuffed animals in bright colors in his general direction.

One of the toys is a miniature version of a two-legged reptile mutt that killed five people in last year’s Games.


	3. Chapter 3

Alaric wakes up way too early, feeling slightly hungover even though he hasn't been drinking.

Nothing about the Games is pretty, but parade day has a special place in Alaric's calendar. For some reason, dressing kids up for slaughter feels particularly perverse to him, and it doesn't help that when he enters the dining room, Damon and Nero are practically chirping, high on coffee and whatever the fuck it is that Capitol people take to make themselves even happier.

“...going for a natural look,” explains Nero as he bends over his sketches. “Minimal makeup, garlands wrapped around their bodies. Children in paradise.”

Alaric doesn't manage to suppress the snort that escapes him, but to be fair, he wasn't trying too hard.

“Oh, you're up,” says Salvatore, deeply unmoved by this show of hostility. “Perfect. Come here. Mentor. Crowns made of flowers or tree leaves?”

Alaric blinks.

“What?”

“Ancient Romans used to give crowns made of oak leaves to soldiers who conquered cities,” says Nero dreamily as if Alaric knew what he was talking about. “That would be a bold choice. They come from afar to conquer the hearts of the Capitol...”

“...who sees them as a pair of green goblins,” interrupts Salvatore. “Give them flowers, you moron. They need a splash of colour.”

“Flowers? In a forest?” Nero makes an ugly grimace. “That seems out of character. Alaric, are there flowers in a forest?”

“How long have you been designing costumes for Seven?” seems like a rude question to ask, so Alaric opts for stuffing his mouth with a piece of toast to keep it shut.

In the end, his input turns out to be irrelevant. Before he's done with coffee, Damon and Nero settle for crowns weaved from branches of blossoming cherry trees, then move on to shoes.

Johanna shows up when they're in the middle of discussing hair, and she only needs one glance at the sketches to produce a perfect scowl.

“Let me guess,” she says in her best disgusted voice. “This year, we're trees.”

Damon and Nero barely notice her, busy redefining “fabulous”. Blight, as the one who seems most human, got charged with waking the tributes and directing them towards prep, so Alaric and Johanna can't expect any help from him this morning.

Technically, it should be their job to argue for things important to the kids: to oppose the most obscene costumes, and veto the most outrageous strategies. Johanna still does it sometimes, if only for the pleasure of arguing, but Alaric suspects that even she is starting to see just how useless this kind of thinking is. The tributes will live or they will die, but either way it’s essential that they have absolutely perfect hair.

“So, how are we trying to sell them?” he asks Johanna as she tries to decide between coffee and orange juice. 

“So far, as garden decorations,” she grumbles loudly enough for Nero to hear her.

“This is going to make them look like District One,” replies Alaric, ignoring her jibe. “The whole… noble posture and ivy thing. You want to bet there will be glitter?”

“Well, they _are_ well-built, especially the boy… You know Salvatore will want to present them as warriors.”

“Except they have no combat training, and we won’t be able to hide it.”

“But if they don’t demonstrate force, everyone will think they’re hiding something. You might as well draw targets on their backs. And there is no third option. Let’s hope they’re fast learners.”

“I don’t like this, Johanna.”

She shrugs.

“Would be weird if you did.”

Eventually Blight joins them, and the second he does, the mood in the room shifts. He's a little worse for wear, completely oblivious to the fact that Nero, who just closed his precious folder, is openly staring. Alaric notices a second too late; he automatically hands Blight his coffee, no cream, two sugars, then withdraws quickly before their hands can make contact.

He's tempted to be defiant and stare back at Nero, but he knows better than to give in.

“First interview is in an hour,” says Blight, grabbing a piece of toast. “Some fashion magazine or the other. Do we have a strategy?”

“They do.” Johanna inclines her head towards Damon and Nero. “But Ric is hoping for a better brainwave.”

“Vague statements it is,” confirms Blight calmly. “Are we sticking to basic facts and being generally mysterious?”

“More or less. How are the kids?” asks Alaric. His own voice sounds unnatural to him, fake-casual, all too conscious of Nero's gaze.

“Shellshocked. Panicked. Brave. The usual.”

“Which one of us is talking to the fashion magazine?” Johanna doesn't really sound like she didn't know the answer.

“We are,” answers Blight shortly, pointing at Alaric and himself.

Game on.

The journalist who talks to them is sleazy in a polished, Capitol way. Politely interested in slaughter of innocents, he's a complete and utter hyena that makes Alaric feel like a freaking beacon of morality, and he's murdered people.

“So, I know that costumes for tonight’s parade are a big secret, but can you give us a hint? What are your tributes like this year? What are you hiding up your sleeve?” prattles the journalist.

“Remarkable,” says Blight with his trademark calm smile. “They’re remarkable young people, and I’m sure they’ll do us proud.”

He’s sitting close, but not too close, always ready to give a wink, a smile, a gesture that their vulture of a host will carefully pretend not to notice. The Capitol loves innuendo almost as much as it loves death and mayhem. 

“And how about you two?” asks the journalist ( _Logan,_ Alaric remembers, _his name is Logan F… something. Finn? Fell? Oh, who cares._ ). “We haven’t seen you for a year, and I bet your fans are dying for an update!”

“Well, we started a bit of a team project this year,” starts Alaric with confidence. He knows that there are certain key words he needs to use, team, friends, brother, together, and never ever mention Blight’s wife. “As you know, it’s been a while since we won the Games, and we’re feeling a bit bored with our talents by now, so we decided to switch. I’m helping Blight to write an account of his Games, and he’s teaching me how to whittle.”

This is absurd, of course. Alaric, like every forest kid, learned how to whittle before he learned how to talk properly. During his Games, he survived his struggle with District Two only thanks to makeshift wooden weapons he made for himself. Except in the Arena, all he had to work with was a shitty knife he’d snatched at the Cornucopia, so his spears were coarse and ill-balanced, nothing like tiny, gorgeous figurines Blight produces at home. The contrast is striking enough to make the lie plausible. Or at least Logan Whatshisname seems to be buying it.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” he exclaims. “So you had a chance to spend a lot of time together this year?”

This is Blight’s turn to take over, to talk about long evenings and daytrips with the kids – his wife is off-limits, but it’s absolutely essential that he mentions the kids.

Their mentor taught them well.

In the end, Logan Whatever is almost jumping up and down with glee, Alaric feels like he needs to take at least twenty showers, and the interview with remarkably few mentions of strategy is ready to be printed.

“That went well,” says Blight, absently rubbing the back of his neck. 

Alaric’s gaze follows the movement of his hand; he can’t bear to look at Blight directly when they’re in the Capitol, not even when they’re alone. For some reason just looking makes him feel slimy and gross, all wrong, and okay, maybe when things get rough in the Arena, he’ll break down and seek comfort, but not yet.

“I’ll go check up on the kids,” he tells his feet, and leaves without waiting for Blight’s reply.

He visits Tyler first, though “visit” is probably a bit of an overkill. Tyler is soaking in something moderately vile as the preps put what looks like five different ointments on his face, and he probably wouldn’t want to talk to anyone even if he could. Instead, Alaric catches Claudius, officially Tyler’s stylist, in reality Nero’s eternal (and bitter) second chair. 

“Cherry blossoms and ivy!” he yells as soon as he spots Alaric. “On tree trunks! Who on Earth thought it would be a good idea! _Cherry blossoms and ivy!_ ”

Alaric is probably supposed to understand this outrage, but he can’t really say he does. He’s been helping to dress kids as trees for fifteen years, but he still has trouble recognizing the difference between a good tree and a bad tree.

“Oh, just lose the tree trunk,” he says, because apparently Claudius expects a reply. To his surprise, Claudius gives him a smile so radiant it could light a room.

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Can I tell Nero you said so?”

“Yes, you can,” throws Alaric impatiently. He just noticed the preps leave Tyler’s face alone, and he knows that his window is probably tiny, so the last thing he’s interested in is the stylists’ power play.

“How are you doing?” he asks carefully.

Tyler opens his eyes and gives Alaric an incredulous look, somehow ruined by the orange goo on his face.

“What do you think?”

Alaric is famously bad at platitudes, so he chooses not to answer the question.

“You’ll have a lunch break soon,” he says clumsily. “At least they’ll let you out of this tub.”

He wants to add “The worst is over,” but he bites his tongue at the last moment.

On his way to Elena’s prep room, he runs into Nero, who is close to spitting fire.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Saltzman? Salvatore will hear about this! Since when do you make any executive decisions here?”

Alaric shrugs without comment. The last thing he wants to do right now is deal with people who treat fake tree bark as a matter of national emergency, but he knows that now that he so foolishly fueled a conflict, the stylists won’t let go so easily.

“This will ruin the whole concept!” fumes Nero, and Alaric surprisingly feels a rush of anger, something made of Nero’s annoying voice, Logan Something’s prying eyes, and Tyler’s body soaking helplessly in a huge tub.

“Screw your concept,” he says in a faux-calm voice. “They’re kids, not decorations. People are supposed to see them.”

Then he storms out before Nero can find a reply, and since the only door not blocked by infuriated fashionista bodies leads back to the elevator, he returns to their floor without seeing Elena.

He finds Johanna and Blight watching yet another rerun of the Reaping in the dining room, and jotting down initial notes.

“Where is Salvatore?”

“On the phone,” replies Johanna without taking her eyes off the screen, then she writes a few words on the card marked with a huge number four. “Why?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

They’re at District Six when Salvatore reappears, grinning shamelessly.

“You sent Nero into a right state,” he says.

“Perhaps, but I was right,” says Alaric stubbornly. In a sane moment, he’d be first to admit that he’s being ridiculous, and he has no sound reason to insist, but, well. This day has been far from sane.

“You know what? You probably were.”

Blight gives him a questioning look, but Alaric takes care to look away, so Salvatore explains instead:

“Our Ric here refused tree bark and caused a fashion crisis. I told Nero to shut up and not paint the kids brown for a change.”

Damon’s use of Alaric’s familiar nickname rubs him the wrong way, but he figures that one major fight is quite enough for the first day, and keeps his mouth shut.

They watch the Opening Ceremony together with the audience, a crowd of Capitol people cheering behind them as they take their seats in the Victor’s Row. It takes Alaric a moment to get used to the noise, but he doesn’t let himself linger. He has tributes to focus on.

The pair from One looks like they’re made of solid gold. Caroline and Emerald, reads Alaric from the leaflet provided by the Gamemakers, both fair and dressed in glowy outfits that leave very little to imagination. Their strategy shouldn’t be hard to guess, and the same goes for the pair from Two, currently wearing outfits that seem strangely attractive for stonemasons’ uniforms.

Anna from Four smiles at the crowd as if she wasn’t a trained killer, and Alaric can see that they love it, a tiny girl wrapped in a toga made of fishnets. He needs to double-check his leaflet to make sure that she really is sixteen years old.

Compared to her, Elena and Tyler don’t really make a splash, but they hold their own. The audience cheers at their suggestively placed ivy, and only now Alaric notices how many people are wearing similar accessories: flowers in their hair, and leafy patterns printed on their clothes or tattooed on their bodies. Elena and Tyler fit right in, and when they start smiling and waving, seemingly not a care in the world, they look unfamiliar and distant, almost… Capitol.

Alaric grabs Johanna’s hand.

“I think I have a strategy!” he shouts into her ear.


	4. Chapter 4

Elena quite likes the Opening Ceremony, silly as this may sound. Despite having to watch the Games ever since she can remember, she's still squeamish about blood and gore, so the initial festivities are the only part she can watch without a growing feeling of discomfort and anxiety, her imagination running wild as she anticipates new horrors that might wait around every corner.

So yes, it's better to look at a group of kids dressed in finery and paraded around the city.

Now that she's the one riding a chariot, all she can think about is the noise.

She always thought she was quite use to noise, having, for better or worse, grown up in the proximity of a paper mill, but that was nothing compared to the Capitol. No machine can match the noise of a huge, overexcited crowd howling and screaming what must be the names of their favorites, or maybe words of encouragement or expressions of genuine joy.

Next to her, Tyler is stiff and focused as if he were on a hunt, his eyes scanning the crowd in search of prey or sponsors. Either. Both? Whatever helps him get through the night.

Suddenly the chariot stops, and Elena finds herself standing in the middle of a semi-circle of tributes, directly facing a podium from which president Snow is about to speak. This is the first time she really has a chance to see the others – see them as people, and not moving pictures on a screen that never seem real enough. The girl from One has her eyes glued to the podium, serious and focused, but the girl from Four is carefully observing her competition, and Elena needs to make sure not to meet her gaze. In the Games, it won't do to look anyone in the eye.

“How many _are_ there?” she hears close to her ear, and nearly jumps at the unexpected sound. Tyler's voice is barely above a whisper, but the proximity startles Elena, who, for a moment, forgot she wasn't alone on this chariot.

Somehow, she doesn't think he means the crowd.

Finally fatigue kicks in, and Elena doesn't register much from her way back to the Training Center. There's some hassle with the horses, and a crowd trying to reach elevators. Elena is sure that if it wasn't for Tyler's cool head, she'd never reach her room before midnight.

She goes to bed immediately, not caring about the recap of the ceremony they're supposed to watch on TV.

“They're going to kill me anyway, so I might as well get some sleep first,” she tells Alaric because it sounds good in her head, but she takes care not to think too much about what she's saying.

In the morning, she wakes early out of habit, and since she can't think of anything to do in her strange, Capitol-made room, she drags her feet to breakfast. To her surprise, Alaric and Blight are already there, heads bowed over a single piece of paper. They look intimate like this, and it still makes Elena feel a touch uneasy.

“You're up early,” says Blight, rubbing his eyes. Elena wonders if he slept at all. “Well, sit down and have some food. I recommend cookies.”

The cookies really are amazing: crunchy, filled with nuts and dried berries, and some other fruit Elena can't even name. They seem plain for Capitol food – until she realizes that the ingredients must've come from three or four different districts, much more expensive than the chocolate cookies Grandmother Liz would always buy for their birthdays.

It takes Elena a moment to realize that she clearly interrupted something. The piece of paper in front of her mentors is mostly blank, and Alaric is fiddling with a pen, hesitant as if there was something they haven't quite agreed to write down yet.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” exclaims Blight suddenly. “Ric, quit the mystery. This is about her anyway.”

“What's about me?”

“We're coming up with a strategy for the two of you,” says Alaric with a sigh, and pushes the paper towards Elena.

It has barely a few words on it, “training,” “interview,” and “fashion,” not that Alaric's handwriting is that easy to decipher. Before she has time to wonder what the other words could be, Blight speaks again:

“Listen, training starts today, and we want you to be friendly. Excited, even. Act as if coming here is the greatest achievement of your life.”

“What?”

A male voice coming from the dining room's doorstep startles Elena, and she turns around immediately. Tyler's hair is messy, and Elena is fairly sure he slept in the shirt he's wearing, but there's no trace of sleepiness on his face. Behind him, Johanna is wearing a contemptuous smile.

“Exactly what I just said,” states Blight calmly. “Be charming.”

“And what are we supposed to do? Charm the other tributes to death?”

“You're not charming the tributes,” says Johanna. “You're charming the _Gamemakers_.”

Elena feels stunned, and, judging by Tyler's face, so does he.

“What Johanna means to say is: make a good impression,” explains Blight slowly. “This is hardly a strategy, really. We know you're both excited to be here, and you want to do your best. I can't stress this enough: it's important that you make a good impression in training. The Gamemakers are watching you all the time, so there is no time for stage fright.”

Which roughly translates into: this room is bugged, so we can't exactly spell out our strategy, but play nice today.

The meal is almost over when Elena glances once again at Alaric's notes, and realizes that at the bottom of the page there are a few words written in a slightly neater handwriting:

_Make them think that you're just like them._

She leaves the elevator with her head full of disturbingly chirping advice, make sure to look at the weapons, and traps, oh my God, the traps, and aren't the swords exciting? She's never held a sword before in her life, but it doesn't matter: she's here to learn, and learn enthusiastically. According to Blight, she'd be surprised to learn how many skills a motivated person can master in three days.

They enter the gym boldly, Elena with a (hopefully convincing) air of curiosity, Tyler wearing his best wolfish smile. Alaric's words are ringing in Elena's mind as if she'd actually heard them said: _make them think that you're just like them_. Who did he mean? The other tributes? But that would be ridiculous; they're all as similar as it gets, an identical death sentence hanging over twenty three heads. Who, then?

The Gamemakers.

Just the thought is so revolting it makes Elena nauseous. The Gamemakers rejoice in fear and slaughter, and they'll kill all of them but one as the whole country watches. She could never be anything like them.

If Tyler feels the same, he doesn't let it show. He listens to the do-s and don't'-s given by a Capitol instructor, then enthusiastically moves to the archery station, where he picks up the biggest bow he can find. It's obvious he has no idea how to wield it, but he lifts it easily, and pulls a string. Soon, he’s practicing in earnest, and acting as if shooting arrows at wooden targets was his childhood dream.

So Elena gets herself together, and goes to the knives station.

The instructor has her throwing knives for a full hour, and it’s easier than she thought. She only gets her target dummy’s head or chest a few times, but by the end of her session, she aims reasonably well, even if she hits arms and legs more than anything else. Slowing down is almost as good as killing.

After the hour, her shoulder hurts as if she’s been setting fonts for two days straight, so she hatches herself onto an edible plants station to get some rest. It’s more confusing than it should be. District Seven might be made mainly of forests, but Elena lived in town all her life, and she’s been helping at the printing press since she can remember. Sure, her mother taught her how to make preserves from every possible berry, root, flower or mushroom lumberjacks’ kids bring to the market, but she knows nothing of what they don’t bring – of traps, of dangers and hidden poisons. Right now, she tries to memorize as much as she can, but she feels it won’t do her much good.

She crosses paths with the girl from One by the spear-throwing station. To her surprise, she gives her a radiant smile, and extends her hand in greeting.

“I’m Caroline Forbes,” she says, and everything about her seems genuine the way little in the Capitol does, so Elena shakes her hand and introduces herself without thinking that maybe she shouldn’t.

“I remember you from the parade,” she throws, the habit of making small talk stronger than the thought of the imminent fight to the death.

Caroline beams at the mention, proud as if she designed her costume herself.

“Have you already tried traps?” she asks, pointing at the station to their left.

“No,” starts Elena quickly. “I’ve been at the knives, then…”

“Don’t bother,” interrupts Caroline. “The traps instructor is useless. Try knots instead. Now, _that_ woman knows how to set a trap.”

“Thanks, I will,” replies Elena with a smile. For a second she feels as if she were home – exchanging books with Jenna, or picking printing projects with her dad. 

_Try knives,_ she wants to say. _I really liked what they teach you do with them._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some difficult issues related to queerness, and I've been fiddling with it for days. If there's anything you find uncomfortable, or you have any comments at all, please feel free to speak up. I'll be very happy to discuss anything you might want to bring to me.

Alaric places his hand on Blight's knee in a well-studied move, and feels him tense before he relaxes into his touch.

They've talked about this.

The party around them is just getting started, and it looks like no one is paying them any notice, but Alaric knows better than to trust this impression. There are eyes trained on them, glass eyes of gossip columnists who've been waiting for a year for the money shots they're to finally get today. It wouldn't do to disappoint them.

Blight leans back in his chair, has his easy game face on without fail. They just had a drink with a group of filthy rich sponsors they're trying to poach from District Three, businessmen and wannabe-artists from the music industry, in need of some thrill in their lives. Beetee has been courting them for the past five or so years, tempting them with trinkets of his own invention, while Alaric and Blight have nothing but their charms to recommend them. They don't have much hope to gain anything from this meeting, but they still needed to try – and if they fail, no harm done. Who knows, maybe they do stand a chance? Judging by Finnick Odair’s slight flinch when he saw their guests, some of them might've been former clients of his, which could mean that Alaric and Blight's charms aren’t so worthless as far as bargaining chips go.

It surprises Alaric a little bit that even after eighteen years, he still feels bad about having these kind of thoughts.

Blight played his role well, a young man freed from the everyday drudgery of his District so that he can come to this center of the world and party hard.

“Finally no need to explain yourself to the missus, huh?” asked one of the businessmen as they went to leave, wink-wink, a heart yearns to misbehave. Blight, who after fifteen years of marriage still brings his Ruthie breakfast in bed every single Sunday, responded with a bawdy joke that earned him an outburst of booming laughter from everyone at the table, Alaric included.

Thankfully the music people left before Alaric's disgust for them overcame his sense of self-preservation, but this doesn't mean that the show is over. The party will go on for hours into the night, and there's roughly a dozen victors still mingling in the club, trying to use the relative freedom of training time to line up as many sponsors as possible. Finnick Odair and Bonnie Bennett are chatting up some elderly man who, Alaric vaguely remembers, is possibly a retired Gamemaker, while Rebekah from One is charming the shoes off of a fashionable youngster whose cuff links appear to have cost more than Alaric's annual winnings. Victors are only rich in the districts.

Alaric and Blight are the only Victors whose sponsor meetings are over for the night, but this doesn't mean they're allowed to disappear. They know they should use this opportunity for publicity, get themselves photographed and seen, the more the better, and then hope their fans are still loaded.

Alaric can feel Blight's hand slide up his chest, a mere ghost of a touch, and he takes a deep breath before he turns to fully face him. This is familiar, a game they've been playing ever since Alaric's Victory Tour. Technically Blight was his mentor, even though he's just a year older, and it didn't escape the audience's attention just how hard he fought to bring Alaric home. The reporters started asking question right after the closing ceremonies, but it was only back in Seven when Liz Sommers, her jaw set so hard they could almost hear her bones cracking, explained to them how exactly to capitalize on this interest.

They join Rebekah and her potential sponsor on the dance floor, and they make sure to stick to the better-lit spots. This is fun, pure, uninhibited fun, and they're sharing it totally as friends, wink fucking wink, hopefully the angle is good.

Their drunken shenanigans are all over breakfast television the next day, and, judging by the comments on discussion boards, most people are delighted. Two or three fans even made lewd suggestions about adding Finnick to the mix, which, as far as public relations go, is usually a good sign. Ric is half-pleased, half-disgusted.

It's the third day of training, and high time to discuss further strategy with the kids. Alaric wonders if he can do it without ever looking Blight in the eye.

Thankfully Johanna is there to act as a buffer, and she's so chirpy Alaric is immediately convinced she made time to watch the news this morning. Either way, Elena and Tyler turn their attention to her eagerly, happy to ignore the weird vibe Alaric knows he's giving off.

“Okay, private sessions time,” starts Johanna loudly. Blight winces at the sound of her raised voice, but he makes no attempt to interrupt. “Any ideas?”

“Wrestling,” says Tyler immediately. “I think it's my strongest suit?”

“Have you tried it in training?”

Tyler shakes his head.

“There was no point. I watched the others, and I could take most of them. Those I can't... Well, I wouldn't learn that in three days anyway, right?”

“Then you shouldn't...” begins Blight, but Alaric interrupts.

“Show it, but don't linger. You only have fifteen minutes, and you don't want to waste them on one skill. Don't just use what you already knew. Show off what you _learned_.”

“And you should throw some knives,” picks up Johanna, turning her attention to Elena. “Yesterday it sounded like you liked that. Anything else you enjoyed?”

Her words, so wrong on so many levels, do nothing to ease Alaric's discomfort. He suddenly feels nauseous, and tries to reach for a teapot, hoping for something to settle his stomach, but the sudden movement turns out to be a grave mistake. He starts retching before he can even move away, and he feels a strong hand he recognizes as Blight's steer his head away from both his shoes and the table.

“Rough night,” comments Johanna dryly, and Ric doesn't have to see Blight to know his eyes are shooting daggers.

“We'll be right back,” he says as he gets up and starts leading Alaric towards the nearest bathroom.

In this case, the nearest bathroom turns out turns out to be Johanna’s, but it’s not like anyone’s going to make a fuss about it. Blight leaves Ric securely bent over the sink, and returns after a moment with a clean shirt.

“I wasn’t drunk, you know,” says Ric as soon as he hears the footstep. “I know this sounds like a pathetic excuse, but I really wasn’t drunk. I must’ve eaten something, or...”

“I know you weren’t.”

Now that they’re alone, it hits Alaric with full force just how ashamed he feels, and he’s not even sure of what. He should probably take a page from Johanna’s book and get angry instead, angry at the Capitol’s leering eyes and sticky fingers, and the way some people’s cheeks flush when he rests his hand on Blight’s shoulder. One day, he promises himself, he’ll learn to be angry like Johanna or ironic like Finnick, and that will be as much freedom as he’ll ever be allowed to have.

“I’m sorry,” he says for now, not specifying what he’s apologizing for. 

Blight puts a cold, wet towel on the back of his neck, and silently holds it in place until the nausea goes away. There is a tenderness to his touch that’s never there for the cameras, a quality that, over the years, Alaric’s learned to associate with forgiveness.

To his great astonishment, it now dawns on him that it might actually mean “I’m sorry too, mate.”

“Come on,” says Blight when he sees Alaric start to stir. “Brush your teeth and get your ass in a gear. We have work to do.”

Once a mentor, always a mentor.

The kids are already gone from the dining room, and Johanna is slouching in her chair, her eyes trained on her almost empty cup of coffee.

“Are you better?” she asks casually.

“As well as I can be.”

There’s no time to linger – the day of private session is also the day when media coverage of the Games launches for good, and TV crews need narratives they can work with this evening when they’re presenting training scores. The kids won’t see the full coverage, which will go on for hours into the night, but the story presented there could well mean the difference between their life and death.

Or, more likely, it won’t make any difference at all, but Alaric wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t give it his best shot.

The press conference for District Seven is a quiet affair, but, Alaric tells himself, it’s enough to look at Haymitch Abernathy to remember that it could’ve been so much worse. 

"Tell us about your tributes!" demands one of the reporters. "They sure made a splash already, but will they surprise us with their scores?"

"They're determined to do their best," says Alaric when neither of his companions shows any inclination to speak. Blight despises journalists, and Johanna, they all agreed, should have as little to do with media as possible this year. When she tries to be chirpy, she usually comes out downright scary.

"Well, if they were graded on looks alone, you could be certain to pull twelves this year," quips Logan Whatshisname. A few other reporters nod ferociously.

"They're amazing, aren't they?" picks up Alaric, trying not to think too much about what he's saying. He thanks all the gods he doesn't believe in that this interview won't be broadcast in Seven. Jenna Sommers would rip him a new one. "Here in the Capitol, it's like they're finally in their element. You wouldn't believe how excited they are about everything!"

"So they like it here?"

"They love it," chimes in Blight. "Especially the music. We have a deal that if everything gets done quickly tomorrow, we'll watch a dance show together."

It's not easy to work an angle without seeming like you're doing it, but this time, it works reasonably well. By the end of the conference, Tyler and Elena look vapid and silly, more concerned with the flashy world of the Capitol than with the threat of imminent death. But the audience is tired of the parade of grim children for whom the Games are either a sentence or a deadly challenge. 

"What a refreshing pair!" exclaims one of the reporters as he comes up to Alaric to say goodbye. "Honestly, life is depressing as it is. We could do with a little bit of playfulness."

Blight keeps his hand on Alaric's shoulder as a reminder to not do anything stupid, like punching a Capitolite in the face. On camera, the gesture looks very affectionate.

The kids return from training early, and Salvatore takes this as an opportunity to bully the kitchen into cooking an even more elaborate meal than usual. Elena looks a bit subdued, but Tyler seems determined to eat himself into oblivion. Alaric is pretty sure he's trying to distract himself, but he doesn't say a word. There are worse distractions than a duck in orange sauce.

"So how did it go?" asks Johanna after going through a few mouthfuls herself.

"Not sure," says Elena slowly. "I mean, the Gamemakers looked interested? I don't know. They were nice."

Salvatore snorts at her unfortunate turn of phrase, but thankfully doesn't comment.

"We're aiming for medium scores for both of you," explains Johanna. "Around eight would be perfect."

"Don't we need the highest scores possible?" asks Tyler, clearly surprised. Johanna shrugs.

"I had a three and I'm alive. It’s only the Careers' sponsors who have a hard-on for scores, and you wouldn't be poaching those anyway. For you, the interviews are far more important."

What she doesn't say is that Liz and Blight had been selling her as a charity case from the day of her Reaping, and they'd coached her to botch the private session as much as possible to make sure she wouldn't ruin their angle. If Elena and Tyler don't score at least seven each, the narrative Alaric woven so carefully during the press conference will blow up right into their faces. No one likes a loser.

He lets Johanna do all the talking for now, since, unlike him, she seems to have useful things to say. For some reason the kids seem to find her brusque attitude comforting, or at least not too upsetting. 

The mandatory viewing comes up way too soon, and for once they watch it in the dining room. After a whispered suggestion from Blight, Salvatore has the Avoxes roll the TV in from the living room, and he leans back comfortably, ready for the show. Elena interrupts her conversation with Johanna as soon as the Capitol seal comes up on the screen, but something is amiss at the table, and Alaric can’t quite pinpoint what.

District One starts well, with a ten for the boy, but when the girl pulls an eleven, the audience in the Games studio lets out a shriek of delight which forces Claudius Templesmith to take a short break until they calm down. As scores keep rolling on, Alaric’s eyes are glued to the table, looking for whatever could be wrong, and finally he notices Tyler’s hands clutching the silverware so tightly it almost breaks in his big hands. Above his white knuckles, his face is set in a terrible, artificial smile, but he’s not fooling Alaric, and he sure as hell isn’t fooling Blight, whose whole attention is focused on him.

Two, Three, Four… The girl, Anna, gets a nine, low for a Career, but Alaric knows better to underestimate her childish face and bright smile. Five, Six, Elena grabs the tablecloth, her eyes fixed on the TV, wishing things to go her way…

She scores an eight.

Tyler, a five.


End file.
